climbfalljumpfly
by UnicornPammy
Summary: If getting good grades in order to go to college is like climbing a staircase, and you're at the top of the staircase, how much does it hurt when you fall down?
1. ClimbFall

**climbfalljumpfly**

**By: UnicornPammy**

**Summary:** If getting good grades to go to college is like climbing a staircase, and you're at the very top, how much does it hurt when you fall back down again?

**A/N:** Brian-centric. ::waits for applause to die down:: Brian/Claire ::hears crickets chirping:: Um, angst::applause:: Monday-after ::crickets:: John/Claire ::applause:: Just kidding ::angry mob:: Anyway, hope you enjoy.

**Chapter 1: Climb/Fall**

My first encounter with a staircase occured when my mother slid--butt first--down an entire flight of steps. I don't remember it, but I was there. Pretty soon thereafter, my mom had her first encounter with what my grandma calls "pushing a grapefruit through a buttonhole." And so I presented myself, kicking and screaming, to the world.

About two seconds after that, my mom decided that I was going to be the first member of my family to graduate magna cum laude from an Ivy League school. Hurrah.

-----

I got an A on my first test. Which happened to be writing my own name legibly. Ma was ecstatic. I added one plus one. Another A. I got a certificate for tying my shoes. There was no A on it. I insisted my teacher write one there.

My early childhood consisted mostly of collecting A's and giving them to my mother. I had this idea that maybe she didn't have a whole lot of them when she was little. It made me feel good to give mine to her.

And then, one day, around the middle of third grade, I got a C. I couldn't believe it when my teacher, Miss Mackay, placed the graded test in front of me. All those red marks! I tried to give it back to her. That's not my test. You gave me the wrong one.

No, Brian, that's your test.

No, no, no, it can't be _my_ test.

It is, Brian. You'll just have to try harder next time.

I think I started screaming. Kicking. More screaming.

My mother had to pick me up from the principal's office that day. I was horribly embarassed, and deathly exhausted. I must have looked like a zombie, with puffy, blood-shot eyes, droopy face, runny nose. Somehow snot and tears had gotten into my hair, and it was standing up, stiff and spiky.

Ma didn't say a word to me. She just took my hand, apologized to the principal, and walked me out. We got in the car, and we went home. She sat me down in the living room, and asked me what happened. I still had that test clenched in my fist. I showed it to her. She frowned, waved it away. She didn't want it. She only wanted A's.

It was my first taste of being "Not good enough."

Then she started talking. About working hard, about doing my best. Think of school like a staircase, she said. Each good grade is one step up, one step higher. And at the top of the stairs...

What? I asked.

She just shook her head. And I knew that because of that C, I wasn't good enough to _know_ what was at the top of the stairs. I'd just have to wait until I got there. _If_ I got there.

Then Ma sent me to my room. To study. Study? What's that? I had never studied before in my life. But because of that _C_, that awful _C,_ she made me study.

I _hate_ studying.

Even now, I can't remember what that test was for. I can't remember what I studied. I do remember the Sesame Street alphabet poster on my wall, though. And how satisfied I was when I had completely blacked out Cookie Monster with my magic marker.

It was the beginning of fourth grade when my mother had another encounter with a staircase. And pretty soon thereafter I had a sister.

All I could think was that I had been replaced. I had proven myself to be _not good enough_. And I pictured the staircase in my head, the one I had to climb. The one with...something great at the top. And I thought that maybe if I climbed, and climbed and climbed, I'd be good enough again. I'd make her happy again. And she wouldn't have to replace me. She could take my sister back to the hospital, tell them she was sorry for falling down the stairs, she didn't really mean it. And I could bring her more A's, and life would be just like it was before the C.

All I can say is, I did _my_ part. Unfortunately, I still have a sister.

------

I studied. I studied until I thought my eyes would fall out of my face and bounce off my textbooks and roll away. I studied until it felt like they _had._ My sister brought home A's to add to Ma's collection. Well, I did, too, but mine didn't seem as important as hers. Even though I worked harder for mine.

When I got to high school, I finally discovered what was at the top of the staircase. And I was crushed. It wasn't some great treasure, as I had fantasized. Not candy, or toys, or money. It was horrible. It was _college_. But...it was also my mother's happiness.

I did at some point realize that I was fucked up. But by that time, I felt there was nothing I could do to change it. To stop it.

Then I fell down the stairs.

Remember my hatred for C's? Ohh, nothing could compare. Then came the F The _F_. I remember the blood draining from my face. I remember my hands shaking. I remember the tantrum I had thrown in third grade. In tenth grade, when I saw that F, I grew numb. I did nothing. I couldn't even breathe. And I knew that nothing I ever did would be good enough _ever_ again. If I tried to bring that home to my mom, she'd probably shoot me in the face for the sheer audacity.

Shoot me in the face.

Shoot me in the face.

The seed was planted.

-----

Of course, you _know_ I didn't do it. I couldn't even find a proper gun. It didn't even have _bullets_. It was a flare gun, ok? And I didn't even get a chance to _try _and shoot myself in the face. Because it went off in my locker. And I went to the principal's office _again._ They thought it was a prank. That I wasn't concentrating enough on my schoolwork, that I was becoming a troublemaker. Study _harder_, Brian. Study _more_.

I so wished I had done it.

Until...

Saturday. And _she_ was there.

Falling down stairs. Grapefruit through a button hole.

Life begins anew.

C is such a beautiful letter, isn't it?

-----

I had seen her before, of course. In the halls, during pep rallies and stuff. We even shared the same math class, even though she's a year ahead of me. I guess you could say that during the almost two years I'd spent at this school, I had managed to develop a slight crush on her.

You can imagine my delight--and my horror--at seeing her that day in the library. She..._affects_ me. Like no other girl I've ever met can. Or has. Just looking at her sometimes knocks the breath right out of me. So what did I do when I saw her? Turned into a total retard. I sat there and tried to talk to Bender, like we were buddies, or something. I stuck my mechancil pencil on my lip and _pretended _to be a _walrus_. Sometimes I don't want to admit that I know myself.

And of course that day was all important, and stuff. It changed our lives. It really did. It changed mine, I know that. Because not only did I get to look at her for nine hours. I got to _talk _to her. Oh, sure, I talked to the others, too. We had deep, meaningful conversations that were two percent honesty, ninety-eight percent pot. We danced like idiots and were basically teenagers. And I cried. Holy shit, I actually cried. In _front_ of everybody. Before that day, I had not cried since the day I received that fucking C.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. They're awesome people. I'm glad I got to know them. Whatever. The only thing _you _know is that Allison kissed Andy, Claire kissed John, and I kissed an essay. Everybody lived happily ever after. Right?

Wrong. You don't know anything. All you know is what happened on one freaking day.

Do you want to know the rest?

Because life didn't just stop there. Life goes on, whether you want it to or not. Some people say all you can do is hold on and ride, but sometimes you have to _make_ stuff happen. Or nothing ever does. I didn't want to be one of those people who wakes up one day and realizes that life is almost over, and it hardly ever even started. I don't want to look back and see all this hard work I had done to make my _mother_ happy, and realize that I am MISERABLE You know what I mean?

I don't know, maybe you don't. Maybe you never had a parent like my mother. Maybe you never had to grab on to your _own _life with your _own _two hands and yank it out of somebody else's grip.

Eventually I came to the realization that that was what I had to do.

(A _walrus?_)

* * *

Woo Hoo! Brian is my favorite movie geek. Hope you want more, cuz I've got it. P- 


	2. Garfield Knows

**climbfalljumpfly**

**by: UnicornPammy**

**A/N:** I adore Brian. Have I said that before?

**Chapter 2: Garfield Knows My Pain**

I don't like Monday, and Monday definitely returns the sentiment.

For example: Monday, March 26, 1984. Andy pounded my ass into the ground that day. It was windy, cold, and the ground was frozen solid, still, even though it was technically spring.

Why, do you ask? Simply this: I had dared to say hi to him. Like he was my friend or something. I even tried to sit next to him at lunch. BIG mistake, Brian Ralph Johnson. That's what he'd said. Exactly like that. Like he was saying, "Sure, I remember everything that happened. And I'm still going to be an asshole." And the look in his eyes told me that he didn't know what else to do. I saw his cowardice there, in his eyes. And maybe that's why he tried to turn me into hamburger, I don't know.

So after school, they cornered me. They surrounded me, Andy and his wrestling buddies. I thought I put up a good fight, but I knew I was over-matched by QUITE a hell of a lot. It was a lost cause. After they left me lying there on the hard, icy ground, blood flowing from my nose and the split in my lip, I didn't get up for a while. What was the point?

As I lay there contemplating clouds, life and the bone-chilling cold, I realized something: I was alone. I felt supremely disappointed. But I also realized that I'd have to go through with it anyway. I would have to continue to be the Brian that I became in the library. The Brian who had existed before really had not been good enough. He had been afraid. Of everything.

I could not be afraid.

----

So, like, how much do you really know about me? You don't know much at all, do you? You know I have a mom and a dad and a sister. You know my parents have a red station wagon and that they want--NEED--for me to go to college and Make Something of Myself. You know that I once considered suicide an option.

You don't know whether or not I still do.

You can't judge me based on just one day.

But I can tell you this: suicide is for people who are afraid.

And I could not be afraid anymore.

-----

It wasn't just my run-in with Andy that told me I was alone. And maybe Andy would have reacted differently if _they_ had been there.

But neither Claire, John, nor Allison were at school on Monday. Maybe Andy had just needed one--just _one_--of them to back him up. I wasn't enough, really. Not _good_ enough.

Eventually I picked myself up off the ground. Most of the bleeding had stopped, but my lip still throbbed even in the numbing cold. The frigid air hurt as it moved through my nose, so I had to breathe through my mouth. I couldn't quite stand up straight. My middle felt bruised. Sickeningly, I could still _feel_ Andy's punches. As if my wounded flesh was caught in a continuous replay of each blow I had received.

I can totally see why his dad and his coach and most of the cheerleaders are ga-ga over him. He is very strong. Although, I think a better word would be _powerful._ Enough to beat up a low-B gym student, anyway.

Takes a lot of courage, doesn't it?

I kept my head down during the walk home. Lots of cars passed me. I thought I heard one set of wheels slow down, then speed up again as it went past. I didn't look up to see who it was. It probably wasn't anybody.

I was alone.

I tried to tell myself I preferred it that way.

-----

I didn't see John Bender again until Wednesday.

He looked the same. I mean, literally. Same moth-eaten tweed trench coat, same grungy boots. Same gray sweats and flannel shirt. I mean, I don't know, maybe he just has a lot of copies of the same ensemble hanging in his closet. Who am I to say?

But...he _walked_ differently.

Let me see if I can explain...

John Bender is famous at our school. Except everyone just calls him Bender.

You knew that.

What you didn't know is that Andy was wrong. And I'm not just saying that because he used my face for T-ball practice. I'm saying it because he was _wrong_. People _would_ notice if John Bender disappeared. I mean, they may or may not celebrate the fact, but they'd _notice._ He's famous. He's like a symbol. The embodiment of anarchy. Rebellion. Cheesy, but true. And some girls go for that. Jesus, look at Claire. She was practically licking his boots the moment he walked in. I saw her trying to fight it. She did. But she was so used to getting what she wanted. And she _wanted_ John Bender. Almost as much as--

Well.

Anyway.

He walked differently on Wednesday.

You see, normally when he entered a place, you could _feel_ his presence. It was like he had this force field around him. Little molecules of _chaos_ spun out from him, like he was a planet and they were his satellites. Or maybe more like Saturn and its rings, except instead of moving along just one axis, they circled him on many different axes. Criss-crossing and jumping orbits. _CHAOS._

But that day...different.

That day, he was a freaking black hole, his core so dense and dark, not even light could escape. A path appeared before him, even through the crowded hallways. Nobody wanted to get too close, nobody wanted to get sucked in.

I watched him as I grabbed a few books from my locker. My new locker. This one wasn't ruined, with a melted ceramic elephant at the bottom.

And as he passed, I saw a shock of red hair across the hall.

He walked past her, not looking at her, not even slowing down. Her eyes followed him, triumphant and cruel. She had a knowing little smile on her face. It disappered as soon as she noticed me noticing her. When it went away, there was nothing. Just nothing.

I had a feeling she'd gotten what she wanted. And like everything else she owned, it couldn't satisfy her.

I slammed my locker shut and walked away, disgusted with her. Disgusted with Andy. Most of all, disgusted with myself.

Because I still wanted _her_. More than anything else.

-----

I know what you're thinking. Right now you're asking yourself, "What about Allison?"

Allison.

I liked her a lot, that day at the library. Of all of us, I think she had the most courage.

I wish she could have been there on Monday, because she would have seen Andy beat the shit out of me, or at least heard about it. She would have _known_.

But she didn't know. And Tuesday, she walked up to him between classes. I think I felt tears spring into my eyes when she smiled at him. So shy and uncertain. She's really cute, you know? In a dark, Picasso-painting kind of way. And I felt so damn sorry for her, I didn't want to watch. But I couldn't help it.

Right now you're screaming at me, "Brian, why didn't you _tell_ her?"

She kind of reached out for him. She brushed his shoulder with her fingertips. Like she was testing to see if he was really _there._

He smiled back at her, a crooked half-smile. I saw the fear jump back into his eyes even as his lips curved upward. I saw his mouth open. I wasn't close enough to hear what he said to her. Her lips parted slightly, and she looked dazed, like he'd punched her.

He was doing the same thing to her that he'd done to me. Pounding her ass into the ground. Even though he did it with words instead of fists, I think she left a lot more blood behind than I had.

But at least she walked away with her head up.

-----

Why didn't I tell her? Maybe I wanted to see if Andy would...be nicer to her than he had been to me.

And...she wouldn't have believed me, anyway.

That's what I tell myself.

* * *

Do I still have you? Are you sure? Well, we'll see. After I post the next chapter. 


	3. Karma

**climbfalljumpfly**

**by: UnicornPammy**

**A/N: **Ok, I took a few liberties with the layout of Shermer High, namely the presence of big floor-to-ceiling windows in the library that look out on the football field. This chapter was shorter than I wanted it to be, but I already have the next one mostly done...just need to find the errant notebook where the majority of it is written... Sorry this update has taken so long. Life has sideswiped me a bit lately, and I simply have had no time to write or even log onto the internet. But I hope this will hold you until I catch up to my life again. I heart you all!

**Chapter 3:** Karma, or In Your Face, You Bad Baddie!

I found Allison the next day during lunch, in a back corner of the library. I guess that shows how much of a dork both of us are, hanging out in the library during lunch. She was huddled into herself, looking as if she was trying to take up as little space as possible. Like she was trying to disappear. She was sitting on the floor with her knees drawn up to her chest, her head tilted forward so that her hair fell in a messy black curtain to hide her face. There was a huge book propped on her knees, and she seemed to be completely absorbed in it.

The corner she sat in was part floor-to-ceiling window, part biography section. Outside the window I could see the distant football field, where a group of guys were dressed in the school's navy colored gym suits, playing shirts-and-skins football in the 42 degree weather. I hadn't made a sound walking up to her, so when I quietly announced, "I wanted to warn you," her head snapped up and to the side, the expression in her dark eyes not unlike that of a rabbit trapped in the high-beams of an on-coming Mack truck. It made me feel bad for disturbing her. Her eyes were dry, but her mascara was smeared. As if she had been crying.

"Sorry," I said, and turned to go.

"Where are you going?" she demanded.

Her voice was as sharp and unused to conversation as it had been four days ago. The inelegance of it was jarring, commanding. I stopped, and turned back.

"I...," I looked around, then shrugged. "Nowhere, I guess."

She kept staring at me. "What?" I said finally, mildly irritated.

"What happened to your face?"

Not exactly what a guy wants to hear, but understandable, given the circumstances. I ran my tongue over my swollen lip. The split had closed up since Monday, but it still throbbed. The bruising around my eye was dark purple, fading at the edges to a sickly green.

I thought about lying to her, and immediately asked myself why I was trying to protect Andy. But I realized even as I was asking myself the question, that I wasn't protecting him. I was trying to protect her. Her ideals, anyway.

"He did it, didn't he?"

I guess there wasn't much left to protect.

When I nodded, the vulnerable, exposed look in her eyes hardened to a steely glint. I couldn't help but think that Andy had made an undesired enemy.

I went over and sat in front of her, facing her, as she turned back to her massive tome. I saw a stack of books between her and the window. "What are you reading?" Without looking up at me, she lifted the big book off her knees, tilting it to show me the title. "Webster's Dictionary?" I lifted an eyebrow. Even I didn't sit around reading dictionaries in my spare time. "Anything interesting in there?"

She didn't answer right away. She just sat there, her eyes misting over even while her jaw remained set and angry. "Traitor," she finally said. "Noun. One who betrays another's trust or is false to an obligation. One who commits treason." There was a deep well of rage and pain behind her steady words. And I could definitely understand why. She had...opened up, to all of us. She told us things that no one else had ever heard, mainly because no one else cared.

Andy had acted like he cared. Then shoved it back in her face. How could he be such a dick? Even after hearing what he'd done to Larry, watching what he'd done to Allison, knowing what he'd done to me, I still found it hard to believe that he could be that kind of person. I still _wanted_ to believe that he was who he became in detention. I drew my knees up to my chest, mirroring Allison's pose. I wrapped my arms around my knees and laid my forehead on them, taking deep breaths to steady myself. And I wondered how I ever could have thought that five kids from such terribly different social strata could ever hope to be friends. Because at that moment it felt really im-fucking-possible.

"You should go."

I brought my head up, shocked and afraid that Allison was ditching me, too. Fearing that she somehow thought that I had betrayed her as well. "What?"

"The bell."

I heard, then, the sound of students rushing through the halls, trying to get to the next class. The guys out on the field were loping back to the building. They were laughing and rough-housing. One guy jumped on another guy's back, holding up the football triumphantly. The other guy stumbled, almost fell, then regained his footing. I guess the shirts won. And there was Andy, trotting at the back of the pack, putting his shirt on as he ran. There was a smile on his face, but it looked wooden, fake.

Suddenly there was another guy running at him, side-swiping him, taking him down. For a second, a brief second I thought, Oh my God, that's Bender. The avenging angel, taking him down, making him pay for his sins. But then the guy got up, and it was just another jock, laughing and pointing at Andy. But Andy didn't get up. He lay on the ground, clutching his knee, his mouth open and his eyes shut tight. The weird thing is that even though I wasn't out there, even though glass and steel and about 50 yards separated us, I heard the snap of tendons and ligaments. I even felt it, sort of. I grabbed my knee, because suddenly it was aching.

My eyes widened. A confusing mixture of vindication and fear consecutively welled up and clamped down inside my chest. I glanced at Allison. She was staring out the window with a look so intense I thought she would burn a hole in the glass. And I realized that the pact we had made, the bond we had forged in this very same library just three short days ago, still burned as fiercely as it had when we'd parted ways, thinking of each other. I wanted to run outside and help him, get him to the nurse's office, something.

I looked out the window again. The guy that had tackled Andy looked frantic, like he was about to start sobbing. A bunch of the other guys who had already gone inside the building had come back out, and they were circled around him. But no one was doing anything. It made me think of a funeral, a bunch of people dressed in dark, muted colors, staring at the ground.

Jesus Christ, I had to do _something._ I stood up and spun around, heading for the exit. Then I saw _her_, standing there in the middle of the library. She was staring out the window with a look holding almost the same intensity as Allison's. And even though I knew that she had done something to John, something that had wounded him to his core, I still felt for her. I wanted her to turn that intensity on _me._ I forgot about Andy for several heartbeats and just stared at her, wondering what I could ever do to earn her consideration.

"Brian!"

Allison's exclamation seemed to awaken both me and Claire. We both turned to look at her. And in that instant I realized that Claire hadn't even _seen_ me until Allison had said something.

Al pointed out the window. There was the coach kneeling next to Andy, who was sitting up. He was saying something, and Andy was nodding. Then Andy shook his head. The coach squeezed his knee, and Andy grimaced in pain. Then the coach stood, then reached down to grab Andy's wrist and hook it around his own neck. The kid that had knocked him down mirrored the action on Andy's other side, and together they got the fallen wrestling hero up off the ground. Even from where I was I could see his knee already swelling and turning a blotchy red color. The three of us watched the grim procession as Andy made his slow, painful way into the school building, leaning on his coach and his comrade. I couldn't help myself, it was a moving sight.

He glanced, once, at the library, but his gaze did not linger. I wondered if he saw us.

The rest of the day I tried hard to figure out why it mattered so much to me if he had or not.


	4. Fights and Flights

**ClimbFallJumpFly**

**by: UnicornPammy**

**A/N: **This was a satisfying chapter to write. I enjoyed it, and I hope you guys do, too.

**Disclaimer: **Raawr! Not mine. I just screw them up.

**Chapter 4: Fights and Flights and Soggy PB&J**

Thursday. Named for the Norse God of Thunder: Thor's Day. Very appropriate, then, that the sky opened up and released its entire contents on Shermer, Illinois that day. Five days A.D. After Detention. Sometimes I'm so clever I could just shoot myself.

I ditched class for the very first time--shop class, go figure--to sit beneath the bleachers at the football field, and wait. He seemed to come out here quite often. And I needed to talk to him. It was muddy and cold beneath the bleachers, and I couldn't quite find a spot where there wasn't an incessant drip. I started to doubt the intelligence of coming out here.

I wondered what Claire had done to him. Yesterday in the library, after the three of us had watched the slow procession of athletes, I turned to speak to her. Anything, I wanted to say anything to her, as long as it was something. But all I saw was her back as she exited the library, and the door shut behind.

_Screws fall out, it's an imperfect world._

I ducked my head and chuckled softly at the memory of John's words. The laughter somehow turned into tears, and there I was, Big Bry, weeping under the bleachers.

And of course, wouldn't you know, that's how Bender found me. Life sucks.

"What's up, Waterworks?"

I looked up, startled, wiping my cheeks with the sleeve of my jacket in a futile gesture to dry them. There wasn't a dry stitch of clothing on me by this point. "Nothing," I said quickly.

"Good," John said, looking just as soaked and disheveled as I felt. He dug in his pocket, coming up with a plastic baggie containing cigarettes and a lighter. "Want one?"

"Ah," I held up a restraining hand. "No. Thanks."

He shrugged, and lit up. He smoked quickly before the rain turned his cig into a soggy mess.

I was nervous now. What should I say?

"Um, I wanted to talk to you."

He shrugged, looking uninterested. I guess that was a good sign. At least _he_ didn't seem to want to pound me into the ground. Not yet, anyway. But then, I hadn't started talking yet.

"What did...um...," pause, clear throat, regroup, "...um, what happened? Like, between you and Claire."

He stopped with the cigarette to his lips, about to inhale. He lowered his hand instead, looking at me with one eyebrow raised. "What do you mean?"

There was a warning in his voice, a very clear message to back off. Or maybe to keep coming. I couldn't tell if he was in the mood to fight. If I had the urge to cry, maybe he had the urge to kick the shit out of someone. Maybe it all added up to the same thing.

And maybe I _wanted_ him to kick the shit out of me. Because at least it would be...

It would be something. I was tired of all the nothing. Fear was such an empty feeling. Ten seconds ago I was afraid that John would beat me up. Now, I almost wanted him to do it. And it felt better to be able to face something than to cower from it.

What the hell was wrong with me?

I took a deep breath, jumped right into the fire. "I mean, what did she do to you? I saw the way you looked yesterday. And I saw the way she looked at you. She did something, didn't she? She said something to you."

He just looked at me, his mask of indifference slipping a little, and I could see the anger and the hurt there beneath it. Why were we all surrounded by those two emotions? "Why the fuck do you care?"

"I care because we made a promise. You made a promise. And Andy made a _fucking_ promise, but nobody's keeping it!" I was in his face. Screaming. In John Bender's face. Holy shit.

He shoved me. "Back off, boy scout. Who cares? You're the only one who gives a shit."

"No, I'm not. Allison does. Or did. And I think you did. But then Claire _did _something to you. What the fuck was it?" The adrenaline pumping through my veins made white spots in my vision, but I wasn't going to back down.

He tossed the cigarette on the ground, and advanced on me. Slowly. "You little shit," he said quietly. "You think you know everything? You think if we just all sit in a circle and hold hands and sing Jesus music, the world's gonna be all hearts and fucking flowers?"

The white spots filled my vision until I was blinded, and then I was on him, and we were on the ground, rolling around in the mud. I got in a couple of good hits, but he was better, bigger, stronger. And for the second time that week I found myself on the ground with blood flowing from various cuts on my face, and my ribs aching.

And John was standing over me, looking down, his breathing labored. He squatted next to me, and I saw the blood running down his chin. He turned his head to spit, then wiped his lips on the back of his glove. "Promises aren't shit, Brian," he said calmly. "You just proved that yourself." Then he stood and walked away.

Rain was falling on my face, so I cried some more, figuring I was wet anyway.

-----

I picked myself up when I started shivering, knowing that I couldn't just lie in the mud and weep all day. My calculator watch told me that it was 12:30, still time to return to school for my last two classes. The obedient, God-and-Mom-fearing part of me told me to go back inside, to finish the day. Don't let your grades suffer because of some ridiculous little fight!

The new Brian said, Fuck it. I can't go back. Not like this. So I cut across the football field, going in the opposite direction from the way John had gone, and trudged into the woods. I was going to walk home.

Halfway there, the rain slackened to a drizzle. Not that it mattered, anyway. I was soaked through, my clothes caked with mud. I knew my face had to be a mess. The split in my lip had opened again during my brief, explosive fight with John, pouring fresh blood down my face and onto my neck.

The rain had served to wash some of it away, but I probably still looked like I'd just been run over by Big Foot or Gravedigger. Or both. I just hoped my mom wasn't home. I ached everywhere, and I was shivering and dirty. All I wanted was to be alone.

It took me an hour and a half to walk the three miles from school to home. I stayed off the road as much as possible, trying to keep out of sight. Both of my parents worked, and my little sister wouldn't get home for another hour or so, so I was probably ok. But I didn't want anyone to see me. Not like this.

I reached up to scratch my neck, and was surprised to find dried blood under my fingernails. I started rubbing my neck with my cold, clammy hands, then I scrubbed my face, wincing as I discovered a tender spot on my cheekbone. I decided that the next time getting beat up seemed like a good idea, I should smash my face with a sledge hammer. Similar results, less time.

I realized then that my head was pounding, and I was really, _really _thirsty. By the time I reached my back yard, I was ready to belly up to a puddle and dunk my head in. I went in through the back door, not wanting the neighbors to see me. They were good friends with my parents, and they seemed to have made it their mission to keep an eye on us when our parents weren't home. They had a little dog that my sister was in love with, so she didn't mind much, but I could have done without the prying eyes.

I took my shoes off as soon as I walked inside. My mother would saw my head off with a dull knife if I left muddy footprints all over the floor. Shoes in my hands, I made my way through the darkened house, leaving it that way because the darkness felt soothing. It covered my appearance and my shame.

Finding my way to the foot of the stairs, I looked up, my eyes rising slowly. It seemed so far to go, such a long trek for my battered body to make. The only way I could get started was to tell myself that the shower was up there. So I tromped painfully upward, holding my shoes in one hand and the other tightly clutching the bannister, practically hauling myself up. Once at the top of the stairs, I went straight for the bathroom. With shaking hands I pulled off my clothes, noticing that my jeans had a hole in the right knee. It was small, but my mother would see it right away. There was blood on the front of my sweater, and soaked into the collar of my undershirt.

Being my mother's son, I knew a little bit about what to do with stains. And blood needed to be rinsed with cold water. I stopped up the sink and crammed the offending garments into the clamshell basin, then turned on the tap. When it was full, I peeled off my socks and tossed them on top of my jeans. Dressed only in my underwear, I walked across the hall and into my room to retrieve some clean clothes. When I had gotten back to the bathroom, I couldn't avoid it anymore. I looked in the mirror.

I didn't think Ma would believe the volley ball excuse this time. My left eye was nearly swollen shut, and I had a nasty cut on my right cheek. My lip was twice as large as normal. Besides the ugly bruising, my skin was pale, my eyes hollow-looking.

I turned away from the mirror with a shudder, and suddenly wanted to drown myself in hot water and soap. For some unknown reason, I felt dirty. Really dirty. After I got beneath the hot spray, I just stood there, letting it wash away the mud and the blood, letting it warm me. It was only when the water started to lose heat that I scrubbed. And I scrubbed hard, till my whole body felt as raw as my face. When I was done, I felt better than I had before. Which isn't saying much, because I still felt like crap. But that was at least closer to normal.

I dried off and dressed, then gathered up my dirty clothes and took them downstairs to the laundry room. I started the washer and went back up to the bathroom. My backpack was still there, and still very wet and covered with mud. I pulled out all of my books and stacked them on my desk, then found the care tag on my pack. Being, again, my mother's son.

It was machine washable, so I ran downstairs, rinsed off the worst of the mud in the laundry sink, and tossed it in the washer with my clothes. I turned to go back upstairs, and there was my little sister, accusation in her eyes.

"You didn't meet me at the bus stop."

God_damn_ it, what time was it? I tamped down the panic and replaced it with the sarcasm I usually directed at her. "You lived, didn't you?"

"But you're _supposed_ to meet me at the bus stop. What happened to your face?"

I sighed. "Nothing," I said, and brushed past her. I knew she was going to tell Ma that I hadn't been at the bus stop waiting for her. I must have spent more time in the shower than I thought.

"Something happened to your face. It's uglier than usual."

The urge to roll my eyes was strong, but I knew it would hurt if I did. I just continued walking away from her.

"What are you washing?" she asked, her voice coming from right behind me.

_"Clothes,_ Heather, now stop following me."

She followed me right up the stairs and into my room. I turned around. "Heather, get out!" I yelled, pointing at the door. "Didn't Mom tell you to stay out of my room?"

"Didn't Mom tell you to stay out of my room?" she said in a mocking voice, a shit-eating grin planted on her face.

Gritting my teeth in repressed rage, I grabbed her under her arm pits and lifted, but she started screaming and kicking, beating at my shoulders with her little fists as I carried her toward the door. I almost had her there when her shoe cracked against my knee, and my leg crumpled. I heard a similar crack as her head hit the door jamb on the way down. Her screams of rage became long wails of pain.

"Oh, Jesus," I said, trying to help her up, but she fought me, fists flailing once again. She got me in the eye, and white lights flashed inside my brain, blocking my vision. I fell back, writhing, both hands clutched to my face. I must have looked quite pitiful, on my back with my hands pressed to my eyes, trying (unsuccessfully) to keep the tears of pain from leaking out. I think I was panting and making little agonized noises in the back of my throat, because I slowly became aware that Heather wasn't crying anymore. Taking deep breaths, I got myself under control. I levered myself up to my knees, blinking away the tears clouding my vision. Heather's face was red, and there were tear tracks down her cheeks, with more tears-in-waiting glistening on her lower eyelids.

But she wasn't crying anymore, just looking at me with this strange, almost frightened expression. "I'm sorry," came her nearly inaudible whisper.

I sat back on my heels, gingerly scrubbed my face and ran my fingers back through my hair. I took a deep breath and rested my hands on my thighs. "Me, too." Then with slow, elderly movements, I stood up. I reached down to help her. She hesitated, then took my hand. "Do you want a snack?" I said as I pulled her to her feet.

"Sure." But her heart wasn't in it. I ruffled her hair, stopping as I heard her sharp intake of breath. There was a knot at the back of her crown where her head had hit the door frame. It wasn't very big, but I'm sure it hurt nonetheless.

We walked downstairs together, slowly, both of us walking wounded, leaning on each other.

I made her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and poured her a glass of milk. Then I fixed twin ice packs and placed one gently on her head. When she reached up to hold it in place, I pressed the other against my eye. I waited with her in the kitchen until it was time to put my clothes in the dryer. When I was coming back out of the laundry room, I caught her looking at me with those same eyes.

"Did you get in a fight?" she asked, and suddenly I realized she wasn't afraid _of_ me, she was afraid _for_ me.

I took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "Yeah," I said, nodding.

"Oh." She looked down at her half-eaten PB and J. "Did you lose?" she asked of her sandwich.

I glanced away, feeling tears prick behind my eyes. I looked down at the floor, shoving my hands in my pockets and rocking forward onto my toes, then back down. For some reason I couldn't look at her. "Yeah."

I hated that my little sister thought I was weak.


End file.
